


The nature of things

by ArtificialWick



Series: Crescent nights [1]
Category: Twilight (Movies), Twilight Series - All Media Types, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Carlisle is human, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Mutual Pining, Not Beta Read, Shapeshifter Esme AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:27:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29185527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtificialWick/pseuds/ArtificialWick
Summary: He’s come to enjoy her company and this strange ritual of theirs to sit together on her porch and read. He is only comprehending it now that she is not there. There’s a strange longing inside of his chest and it’s quickly followed up by disappointment. He’s not seen her today and he misses her, he realizes.
Relationships: Carlisle Cullen/Esme Cullen
Series: Crescent nights [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2142738
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11





	The nature of things

**Author's Note:**

> So. Some days ago I found a shitpost by Notquitetwilight and Carllisle on tumblr that basically boiled down to 'Twilight but it's Carlisle/Aro/Wolf!Esme triangle' and I honestly went buckwild. Completely feral.
> 
> Here's the original post, with the additional art of Esme's wolf form and some headcanons: https://meluisart.tumblr.com/post/641955141038243840/  
> Here is the follow up post with extra extra headcanons: https://meluisart.tumblr.com/post/642044671570378752/
> 
> You don't need to look at and/or read them to understand this one-shot (that'll probably turn into a series at some point) and all you need to know really is that shape shifters are just peoples that exist and Esme happens to be one. Carlisle is human in this au.

Esme is not there today. The lights inside of her home are off. The porchlight remains on as it always does. Carlisle reasons she’s just not home. Though, he knows she doesn’t exactly go anywhere during the late hours. It’s not that he’s memorised her routine. He just knows that she teaches throughout most of the day, runs her errands in the early evening and then takes a walk from the center back to her little corner of the town. 

Always, when he drives home from work and passes by, she is there. She will be sitting there on her old wooden rocking chair, wrapped up in a blanket with the porch light on and completely engrossed in whatever book it is that she is reading at that time. Sometimes he will join her, if she sees him and waves him over. Occasionally she will pass him a book and they’ll read together, other times they sit and talk. She will ask about his day and he will ask about hers. He tells her obscure details and she will tell him about the kids she’s teaching and how well they are doing. Her face will light up, all the stars in the night sky reflecting in her ocean blue eyes and it is a sight to behold.

He’s come to enjoy her company and this strange ritual of theirs to sit together like this far too much, only comprehending it now that she is not there. There’s a strange longing inside of his chest and it’s quickly followed up by disappointment. He’s not seen her today and he misses her, he realizes.

He does not quite understand how he ends up walking up the steps of her porch regardless of her not being there. He’s parked his black Mercedes without consciously making the choice to do so and before he knows it his hand is hovering over her doorbell. It’s a bit silly. The lights off mean she’s either not there or already asleep, he would just be waking her. He can’t deduct from a lack of vehicles if she’s home or not either. For as far as he is aware she doesn’t own a car or any other form of transport and goes everywhere on foot. Musing over this he stands to reason that perhaps he should just leave.

It takes a minute before he does so, time spent listening to the hooting of an owl and the rustle of the leaves high up in the trees as the wind blows through them. The wood ominously creaks beneath his feet as he turns on his heels. His gaze drifts down to her rocking chair, finding a book left behind on the seat. There’s a bookmark stuck in about a tenth of the way through and if he’s honest with himself, his interest is piqued. 

His body moves on its own accord, picking up the thin novel in one smooth movement. The cover is a light gray, depicting a wolf walking away. Red letters adorn the empty space, stating title and author.

“Women who run with the wolves, Clarissa Pinkola Estés…”

He flips it over, skimming over the summary before turning it back around. On further examination he finds that the top of the bookmark peeks out from the top, her cursive writing standing out to meet him against the stark white of the paper. She knows him better than he’s estimated. 

“Coming around soon, I hope this can catch your interest until then, Esme.”

He can’t help the smile that graces his face, the implications of it all. She had expected him to come by, had left this specifically for him to find. Fingers brush over the cover and in a practiced motion he seats himself down on the somewhat smaller but still comfortable wooden stool that had appeared beside her rocking chair somewhere after his third evening visit.

Opening up the book where the marker is, he is met with the title of the fourth chapter in clear bold lettering: ‘The Mate: Union With the Other’. The pages of the book feel brittle, old and are slightly yellowed. The place of the marker almost feels intentional. Something tells him she must have read it several times over if the state of it is anything to go by, so he follows her perhaps deliberate lead and reads.

He reads of the man named Manawee and his quest to win the hand of two women with the aid of a little dog. On the surface it does not seem to mean much but the analysis the book provides on the story is surprisingly interesting. It mixes psychology with the nature of women in a most respectful way, giving insights he hadn’t given much thought to before. Carlisle forgets the cold night air nipping at his bare fingers or the passing of time as midnight draws near.

He is well into the fifth chapter ‘Hunting: When the Heart Is a Lonely Hunter’, a compelling look at Life, Death and Life again as well as the nature of love by the time the front door opens. He’s so engrossed in the material she had left for him to read that he’s not heard the opening and closing of the backdoor that had signalled her return home. He’d completely missed the light inside flickering on and the sounds of her rummaging about as she’d changed into her clothes. He’s not heard her open the front door next to him at all, or sensed her leaning in the doorway.

It takes her sweet lilting voice to catch his attention, “engaged in a good book I see?”

He startles slightly, but meets her eyes with a smile so bright it could rival a crescent moon. In his lack of answer she holds out one of two mugs that she’s holding in her hands. “I figured tea might be wise, you must have cold hands. How long have you been here?”

Carlisle shrugs and checks his watch, humming lightly in amusement. He looks up at her again as he takes the mug from her, letting the warmth emanating from it seep into his bones. “An hour, hour and a half?”

She laughs then, “you should have waited in your car, you would have been warmer.”

“The porch is nicer,” he counters, not adding that it’s come to feel like a safe space, a protected piece of ground where he (they) can exist without expectations from the world around them. Reading here makes sense, his car feels too far away even though it is quite literally right there, at the end of the driveway.

“Besides, it is not like you are one to speak, at the very least I am wearing a coat. You look like you should be freezing.”

Now it is Esme’s turn to shrug as she moves over to sit in her rocking chair, not moving to take the blanket out and wrap herself up in it. She is dressed in a light blue blouse with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her pencil skirt comes down to her knees and Carlisle doubts sincerely that her stockings are keeping her warm. Yet, there is a warm glow about her and her eyes are clear and something about her almost seems wild. If he didn’t know any better he’d say she looks like she’s ran for miles on end. She appears to be bursting with energy, he concludes.

“That’s what the tea is for,” she muses, sipping from the steaming hot liquid. “It’s Green Tea, reduces anxiety.”

“Here I thought it was my profession to play the doctor,” he laughs at her and she snorts. “What reason have you to be anxious for?”

“Nothing much, but it works in a calming manner as well and I have too much energy left to think about sleeping any time soon, I was hoping this might help.”

She responds a bit too quickly and there is a mischievous glint in her eyes that he can not quite place. She brushes a lock of caramel coloured hair behind her ears, sitting back in her chair. He can not help but cautiously ask, “where did you come from at this hour?”

The glint is there to stay as she answers, “I went for a walk and I got side tracked. It happens when I bring my sketchbook with me.”

Esme had run for miles and miles on end, the thick strap of her book bag held firmly between strong jaws. Her four legs had carried her for an hour as she had sprinted through the wilds. She’d shifted and settled on the side of a hill, the final rays of the sun warm against her skin as she’d sat there with her sketchbook in her lap and a pencil between her fingers. She’d sketched out the trees that stretched upward to the soon-to-be starry sky, the river splitting the land, mountains jutting up from the land in the distance. She had been so absorbed by the sight before her that she’d forgotten the time. The dark does not bother her much and neither does the cold. 

Carlisle hums in acknowledgement. She sketches and draws and he knows it. She’s shyly shown him her sketches once or twice. Esme is a brilliant artist and if anything, to him it feels like she is selling herself short. She calls it an artist’s curse, there will always be something to critique, something that is not good enough.

“I had a feeling it might happen so I left you one of my favourites,” she continues, gesturing in the general direction of the book that has gone forgotten in his lap. “It’s scientific and poetic. I’ve never been a woman of the exact sciences but it did give me a lot of insight that I found helpful. Some things stand out to me when I read it.”

He is thoughtful for a minute, sipping his tea. She still looks at him, eyes trained on his face and gauging his reaction. “It is an interesting read, I can see why you’d like it. Clearly it is written for women but it does make for a good read. The way it is written does stand out.”

“Where were you when I came in?” she asks, curiosity clear as day in the way she speaks.

“The tale of the Skeleton Woman.”

Esme’s smile widens and there is that mischievous glint again. “A story of love and death, a good life lesson. It taught me much. There’s some beautiful lines in there...”

“Yes, from what I’ve read, there are,” he agrees softly. She tilts her head, the inquiry clear. She doesn’t need to ask because Carlisle finds himself setting aside his mug on the porch before flipping open the book again; a light frown on his face as he searches for the bit that had stood out to him.

“Wolves are good at relationships. Anyone who has observed wolves sees how deeply they bond. Mates are most often for life. Even though they clash, even though there is dissension, their bonds carry them over and through harsh winters, plentiful springs, long walks, new offspring, old predators, tribal dances, and group sings. The relational needs of humans are no different.”

He trails off slightly, letting the words hang in the open air between them. It’s a comparison to the idea of love, to the way people are much like the animals they so admire in both behavior and in their dreams. It is beautifully poetic and for that reason it had stuck with him. Of course there are more bonds than just that of love; there is familial and friendship to think of but people will always seek each other out like wolves looking for their pack.

For as far as Carlisle knows Esme is alone. She’d already been so when he’d first moved into town. He doesn’t quite understand why. She is lovely in every sense of the word, her company is more than he could have asked for in a small town such as the one they live in. Yet, she’s never seen with anyone else except for at the school she teaches at; outside of that she has no family residing nearby, no friends to speak of, no lover that he knows of.

If Esme could have read his thoughts she would have argued that she does have a friend, it is what she considers him to be. A close friend with whom she shares a connection that she doesn’t quite understand yet. Of course he picks that specific bit to quote and something inside of her heart tugs her in his direction, she has to try hard to get it to settle back into quietly beating away inside of her ribcage. 

“Hmm, it is true,” she starts carefully, if he picks up on her slight change in demeanor he doesn’t let on. “People do look to wolves often, we’re very alike in many ways.”

Silence falls again as they sit and finish their tea. Esme’s gaze never leaves him but it isn’t uncomfortable. Carlisle looks out and upward at the stars and she takes note of it. Perhaps next time she’ll lend him her book about the forty eight constellations that she’d received from the library once it was deemed to be no longer needed for the educational purposes it had once served.

She listens to the sound around them, the crickets and the hooting of the owl she knows lives in a tree in her backyard. The rustle of the wind and the quiet lull of the forest that she is comfortably familiar with. At one point she can no longer stifle a yawn, Carlisle following suit.

Both of them look at one another as the sun starts rising, casting an orange glow on their forms. He finds that she looks radiant, even though she is clearly sleepy. Her shoulders have slumped and she’s pulled her legs up on the seat, curling into her chair. It is actually kind of endearing, adorable even.

He can’t hide his chuckle at the sight of it, “it seems the tea didn’t help, you stayed up all night. You need to sleep.”

Esme lets out a short bark of laughter, “so do you.”

It’s quiet again for a while. Usually Carlisle would have excused himself hours ago, early shifts at work looming over his shoulder, but it is Saturday and neither of them have any obligations. So, this is a new part of this ritual of theirs and both are not quite sure how to thread the waters, though they try.

“I’ll get going,” Carlisle starts, internally cringing at the sound of the words that had made sense to say in his head. He stands up and is about to go down the steps but Esme stops him, hand on his wrist. She withdraws rather fast, only briefly making skin on skin contact. She’s rarely ever physical but sometimes he swears he can almost tell she wants to reach out, though perhaps he imagines it.

He turns around and gives her a questioning look, her brows are creased and she's fiddling with the ring on her finger. He’d noticed it before but ultimately decided not to ask, it’s not his place.

“You’re exhausted,” she protests, concerned, “you shouldn’t drive like that. I have a guest room you can use until you’re rested up. I promise, I won’t bite.”

She almost looks up at him hopefully with big blue eyes, daring to plead. She’s worrying her lip and steps back a bit. He takes a minute to answer and Esme is quick to excuse her suggestion.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have suggested- , you live nearby, it’s alright. You’ll be fine, I don’t-”

“Esme,” Carlisle interrupts, “I’ll take the guest room.”

First she seems surprised that he’s taking her up on it, then a beaming smile graces her face. She quickly collects both the mugs and the book before opening the front door for him. She takes his coat and hangs it while he studies the interior of her home.

Esme’s house feels very homey and he finds that it fits the idea he has of her. Light coloured walls match up well with the few paintings and framed photographs that cover the wall. There’s a bookcase that takes up most of the far living room wall and he can’t help but wonder what other books she likes to read. Books are very telling, he muses, books can say a lot about a person. 

Then again, so do paintings. One catches his eye and she gives him the time to study it. They talk for a little while about the painting of a sunset over a smaller farmhouse in Ashland, Esme explaining that she’d lived there once but that the house had been too big for her alone and that she had moved after a year.

When they move on to the guest room Esme shows him around quickly. The room is just as pleasantly decorated as the rest of the house. The walls are a darker green, a four poster bed stands against the far wall and above the headrest hangs a massive canvas depicting a forest scene.

“My room is at the far end of the hall if you need anything, the bathroom is next to the guest room,” she concludes. She sounds as tired as she looks but she looks content in a way.

He nods, acknowledging her, “thank you, Esme.”

She smiles at him then before disappearing down the hall. He listens to her shuffle away as he sits on the side of the bed to take off his shoes before laying down and settling in underneath the light green bed sheet. 

Carlisle can’t help but feel then that he’s glad that she asked him to stay.

He hadn’t wanted to leave anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> This was challenging, I will admit. I struggle writing from Carlisle's perspective, so much, but it felt correct to do the biggest part of this from his pov. Hope it was ok :P 
> 
> As always, any comments, kudos and thoughts would be welcome, they motivate greatly! Hope you enjoyed this <3  
> My tumblr (that I post my carlesme content on anyhow) is Meluisart, so feel free to hit me up there, drop me a request if it strikes you fancy <3


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